


Olvidar

by schwarzesloch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Drinking to Cope, Friendship/Love, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1799002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwarzesloch/pseuds/schwarzesloch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All David knows is that he’ll probably be feeling like horseshit the next morning, but right now he doesn’t care. Well, he is drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olvidar

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: One more for the table, two years later lol. I had this lying around my writing folder and decided to show it to the world. It's a little dumb though, bear that in mind.  
> X-posting to my livejournal, I've never posted football slash here before so I decided to give it a try. Hope you enjoy.

David is toying with an orange sipping straw in an isolated part of the bar, where only half of the customers can be seen due to the dim yellow light coming from the lamp in the middle of the ceiling. He’s not irked, he’s not mad, he’s not feeling anything, he’s not hurt and he’s definitely not thinking of Silva, he’s not caring about whether he’s happy or not in his stupid beloved Manchester fucking City, he really is not, he’s—  
  
Well, he is drunk.  
  
David tries to forget why he even came to a bar in a week day in the first place, and the answer comes right away even if he wants to shut the tiny voice in his brain and the slight, not slight, fucking huge hurt that’s been throbbing in his chest for more time than he recalls and he remembers, even if he’s always thinking about it, about him, it’s all David motherfucking Silva’s fault. He’d tried to call Pepe and Fernando and even Leo, but only Pepe had answered and well, he wasn’t exactly near to console him, being in Liverpool and all, hundreds of fucking miles away. Pepe tried to calm him down and tell him to go and prove Silva wrong, that yes, they can still, they can still be them and far away and playing for different clubs and tell him that deep down Silva wasn’t really meaning it, but David wasn’t in his five senses when he told him to shut up and fuck off, that he didn’t know a rats shit about it, about them, and it was of no avail to try and put the pieces of what they’d once been back together. Pepe had sighed and started telling him about some other English bastard that had the same thing happening to him and that he and his, well, lover didn’t even have national team call-ups to be together, and still they were together, but at that point David just didn’t want to listen anymore and had hung up on him.  
  
\- Hi – he hears a familiar voice calling him from across the dimly lit bar, suddenly making him forget everything he’d been thinking about and looks up with dark bags under his eyes and tiredness accentuating his features. He doesn’t even know where the fuck the man came from, to be honest, and he is taken aback when he sees Iker Casillas, dressed in a casual pair of jeans and a yellow shirt, a jean jacket in his hand, captain of Real Madrid. The Captain of La Roja is moving through dancing bodies and drunk people – which is all the same -, and makes it to the seat next to David, but he doesn’t dare sitting down.  _Probably waiting for an invitation, the bastard_ , David thinks, but instead he chooses to stop him.  
  
\- What are you doing here? – David asks moodily, taking a great gulp of his drink. It burns in his throat and he hisses in pain.  
  
\- What, can’t a friend have fun? – he asks with a smile. Iker notices the dark bags under his eyes and the dishevelled hair – he’s not wearing any hair gel – and the hoarseness of his voice and his smile falters. – What’s wrong, Guaje?  
  
The name comes rolling off his tongue in a very pleasant way to David’s ears, but the name, he can’t, he can’t say it, he wishes he’d just call him Villa and not anything else, not fucking  _Daveed_ , but obviously Iker doesn’t understand there’s another David beside Villa in his life or perhaps he doesn’t want to see it, and when he says it’s just, it’s so—  
  
\- Sit down and have a drink, Iker.  
  
Iker understands something is off but he doesn’t quite know what because he and David aren’t teammates and only see each other when there’s a Clásico or a call-up. Sometimes he forgets how to act around him and talks about a million things David would rather not hear about, but David never complains.  
  
Iker orders a glass of vodka with ice and lemon. David puts a hand on his shoulder and looks up, like he’s either expecting Iker to say something or himself to do something crazy, like—like forgetting what he’s been through. And he’s drunk. And he should have forgotten already, he thinks, but fuck—what is there to do? All he can think of is Silva, David fucking Silva, and even if Iker’s right there, Iker and frolicking around on the pitch and Euro 2008 and World cup 2010 and Iker, captain of La Roja and Real fucking Madrid, all he sees is Silva, Silva and his almond shaped eyes and shy smile and terrible orange kits and his hand on David’s shoulder, his mouth over David’s in one too many passionate kisses, and he’s about to lay his head on Silva’s shoulder, waiting for him to pull David closer when he realizes there is no Silva in Barcelona and that he’s in a smelly bar and that there’s Iker Casillas, Iker fucking Casillas (what the hell is he doing in Barcelona anyway?), and he’s not Silva in any way, but still David ends up leaning his body against the empty space in the seat next to his, where Iker is about to sit down, eyes closed and a silly prelude of a smile on his face.  
  
Iker starts smoothly.  
  
\- If you want to talk, or—  
  
But David doesn't give him time; he desperately throws himself at Iker's neck, hands holding both sides of his head and he’s kissing him with alcohol and uneasiness and passion and fury and Iker tastes a bit of salt in David’s mouth when he kisses him back. Iker missed him and hugs David tightly, deepening the kiss— tongues dancing and teeth clashing and something burning at the back of his throat and the feel of someone waltzing over his heart and stomach, and it’s perfect. But it’s not quite perfect, because David separates abruptly and goes back to his moody, drunk self, while Iker is still panting for air, surprise and amazement on his face. He puts a reassuring hand on David’s back to let him know he’s there -- he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, but he’s there if David wants, if David needs, if—  
  
David gives him an apologetic, sad look and Iker feels something inside him shattering into a million of sharp pieces. He thinks it might be better to take David out of the bar.  
  
\- How many drinks have you had?  
  
\- Too many. (I should go home.)  
  
But Iker doesn’t let him go home when he finally makes it, stumbling, out of the bar, feeling light-headed and dizzy, vision blurred by one too many drinks or something else. Iker is a good friend. He notices something wet in his hand, and looks over to see David crying, sobs racking through his throat like daggers.  
  
\- I’m taking you with me – Iker declares, getting a firm hold of David’s hand and putting his arm around his neck to steady his friend. He can’t bear to see him like this. Not when—not when he knows—damn it, for all his eyes (want to) make him see, this is not David (no, he’s not, he’s just—who is this person?). Iker tries to conceive what’s happening with what’s happened and is a very distant past that he indeed should have forgotten, and perhaps he’s getting somewhere—he thinks the only thing these moments have in common are him and David and even still—it’s not enough. It doesn’t, somehow, feel enough – they don’t feel enough for him (and it’s weird, because he assures himself they used to be enough—or perhaps it was just the thrill of the victory.) Perhaps he and David were never them. He’s still used to the taste of the younger man’s mouth, still remembers where his hands used to like to touch him, it feels like yesterday, not two, three  years ago—but time went by and perhaps the only thing Iker thinks was enough that night were the two bottles of alcohol he downed on himself.  
  
Time seems to drag forever before they make it to Iker’s, and when Iker opens the car’s door for him, all David knows is that he’ll probably be feeling like shit the next morning, but right now he doesn’t care. He flings himself onto Iker’s neck one more time; the captain nuzzles his hair gently and takes him inside. He lies David down on the couch and sits on the other end, placing David’s head on his lap.  
  
\- I need – David splutters, – I can’t, I can’t think of it, Iker, it hurts. It’s over, it’s fucking over.  
  
\- It’s not over – he tells David softly, placing a hand on his thigh. – If it’s not all right, then it’s not over.  
  
David wonders how the hell Iker has the energy (and the brains) to think of something like that when there’s a drunken teammate, crying his eyes out and almost passing out on his couch. He finds it amusing, grins widely in his drunken stupor.  
  
\- It’s just – David starts again, thoughts clouded and vision still blurred, face wet, – I don’t know, Iker, I don’t know. It was working. It’s not working anymore. It works for me. I just— I wish it would stop – he says, placing a sweaty hand over his own chest. He's not making sense anymore. – Not David – and he realizes he said the name again, but he doesn't care. He's with Iker. He's safe.  
  
Iker doesn’t say anything, just nuzzles his hair calmly. Suddenly, he leans down and places a soft, soothing kiss on David’s mouth, who kisses back more eagerly than he should (he's drunk and heartbroken,what the hell is wrong with him? He should know better than this - and he knows, but right now Iker's mouth tastes too fucking good, and he won't stop).  
  
\- I want to help you – Iker says, smiling softly at David, who flushes and squirms under the other man’s hold, but let’s himself be carried to Iker’s room anyways, hands all over the captain’s body, and Iker remembers where his hands used to like to touch him, where he used to like to be touched by them, where they’re touching him- in places he can’t bring himself to name right now, in places he wishes to be touched forever. He wishes he could be touched by David forever, but perhaps David--  
  
Well, David doesn’t mind waking up in Iker’s bed the next morning at all - sore, feeling uneasy and with a terrible headache – but he’s somehow a little less broken, and he can never thank Iker enough for everything he’s done for him.


End file.
